LAST NIGHT IN SOHO

EDGAR WRIGHT HAS dabbled in horror before, of course. Just look at the way Shaun Of The Dead slowly spirals into full-blown zom, rather than full-blown com, for its last ten minutes. Or the giallo -inspired jump-scarific murders in Hot Fuzz . Or Nick Frost in a nappy in his trailer for Don’t .

Yet — Frost in, his first foray proper into horror. But if you surmised from the title that it might be a stalk’n’slash movie set in the bustling heart of London’s West End (cast your minds back pre-pandemic — it definitely bustled), you would be very, very wrong. Wright has made something more ambitious, more enigmatic, more elusive. A film that could bury itself in your subconscious and refuse to move. “It’s an unsettling sort of movie,” he says. “You want to make a film that lingers in the memory. I think about the films I saw once as a child...particular images burned into my memory. Like, the ghost on the other side of the lake in [Jack Clayton’s 1961 horror] . It’s only on screen for two seconds, but you remember it forever.”